Behind the Looking Glass
by Neuronerd
Summary: A series of one-shots investigating the world through Sherlock's eyes. He's a complex man with some dark tendencies, but he can also be a hero even if he doesn't think so!
1. The Gift

**Chapter 1- The Gift**

I rapped my fingers on the arm of my grey leather chair as quickly as I could make the ligaments flex, but the usual speed at which my thoughts flowed had become something like honey in winter and I found it nothing short of appalling. Typically so much data, so many connections, so little time, and so little patience with the small minds I constantly found myself surrounded by. I was normally perpetually caught in a purgatory of mediocrity, but such has been my lot in life for as long as I can remember and trust me- my memory for such things really is quite good.

"Sherlock?" Came that familiar voice. I begrudgingly slammed the door shut to my mind palace and focused on the man opposite me in what he often called "the real world" as though it really were a superior place to reside. He looked intent as he sat forward, an expectant look on his face. Of course I hadn't been paying attention, not fully anyway, but I could reasonably guess his conundrum likely had something to do with getting milk or any number of trivial things that seemed to consume his time. "Yes." I responded with as much certainty as I could muster. No matter what it was, an affirmative answer had an 82% chance of being received positively even if it was technically incorrect, so unless he'd just asked me if his trousers made his bum look big I figured I couldn't go wrong.

"Really?" He asked somewhat surprised. I sat quietly contemplating if he had indeed inquired about his trousers, but as was typical of him he kindly filled in the gaps for me. Unfortunately, silence seemed to be something of an anathema to him and for a lot of people as well. Why others felt the need to fill the air with nonsensical inane yammering was beyond my comprehension. "You're really going to Lestrade's birthday dinner? I mean, I'm sure he'd be pleased to have you there," he stammered trying to hide the fact he clearly felt the opposite, "It's just not normally like you to…"

"Be social?" I asked in an annoyed tone. Of course he was right and while Lestrade had his uses, this felt like yet another campaign of 'let's drag Sherlock into polite society kicking and screaming' which I abhorred. I was all too aware that I didn't exactly excel at the games of others and while I didn't care to learn, people seemed to thoroughly enjoy watching me painfully endure the spectacle as though it were a sport unto itself. I couldn't make John more rational and he couldn't make me any more social which left me wondering exactly what the point of it all was. Getting together with others and getting drunk to celebrate the fact you were one year closer to your eventual death seemed morbid to me- unless there were some sort of probability lottery involved in which bets could be made on the manner and timing of demise based on factors such as diet, gender, family history…

"Sherlock?" He called again.

"What now?" I snapped. "I thought we'd established the fact we were addressing one another. You needn't call my name each time you'd like to speak." It may have been a bit harsh but it only seemed obvious to me. The warning glare that emanated from his eyes was enough to let me know I was dangerously close to a row and I sighed in frustration. I didn't mean to take out my irritability on him even if he often made it all too easy. "Forgive me." I said quietly. He seemed to like those apology things and they appeared to work most of the time, yet I had to be careful not to overuse them least they lose potency.

If he was cross with me, he was able to let it go quickly and for that I was grateful. "Are you feeling alright?" He asked with such great worry in his voice that it perplexed me. "You haven't quite been yourself for the past few days."

"How so?" I asked disinterested. I knew very well what he was playing at, but I've found it sometimes better to allow him to feel useful in the ways he knew how. Occasionally I was pleasantly surprised at how perceptive he could be when he put his mind to it.

He hung his head momentarily as though he were asking himself if I had set some sort of trap for him, but he forged ahead bravely. "Well, you've been sleeping a lot for one, not eating, moving much more slowly than usual. You hardly even drink the tea Ms. Hudson makes you in the morning."

"Is that where it comes from?" I asked as I pondered it. For me it was like Schrodinger's cat- the tea was always just somehow around in the atmosphere but never really came into existence until I observed it in the morning. And at some point during the day I would look to the same spot and it was gone even though I hadn't had a drop. She had stated so many, many times before she was not my housekeeper, so I naturally found it confusing she nonetheless took it upon herself to rearrange my things without permission and make tea. I gave a casual shrug and mumbled, "I just haven't been in the mood."

"And what mood are you in, then?" He prodded in his doctor's 'I'm technically asking but I already know' tone. "Aside from the usual insufferable arse that is."

It was true that John was more or less my doctor since I didn't trust anyone else for anything short of an emergency that I couldn't manage, but that's what he was for- aside from general assistance such as booking air tickets, stopping by for milk, and generally all other aspects of dealing with people that I didn't need or want to directly engage in. He really was more valuable to me than maybe even he could have guessed, but there were times such as this he tended to take his job a little too seriously. "I'm fine, thank you." I deferred in the most polite tone I could manage. "Aren't you always reminding me I need to rest more? What was it you called it…? Ah, yes. Relaxation. Well, there's nothing closer to it than pretending to be dead whilst lying in bed."

I felt the tension in my muscles increase as my discomfort with the conversation grew. I couldn't comprehend this sentiment thing he seemed to prize and just be so damned good at. Suddenly I found myself wanting for a newspaper to hide behind, but my supposed not-housekeeper had tossed it out at some point during the day so I did the next best thing: I leapt up from my chair as swiftly as my body would allow and deftly swung around to pick up my violin. "I need a case. I'm bored!" I grumbled as I played a lively tune to mirror my inner dissatisfaction, trying to swallow the rising tide of bile that scratched at the back of my throat.

His eyes were firm yet still inviting. "You're deflecting." He calmly challenged.

I was a bit surprised and agitated he didn't fall for it. "What?" I asked in horror. There were times when he really was too keen for his own good. It was just a pity he couldn't seem to pull that trick out his hat when it would be more useful other than in annoying me.

"Deflecting." He said again, this time slower and with a little more certainty. "You do this when you feel threatened or scared. You try to change the subject, but I'm on to you and it won't work this time. Now as your doctor, Sherlock, I need to know if you aren't well." He persisted.

"As I stated, I'm perfectly fine." I quickly assured him even if it wasn't quite the truth. It wasn't that I didn't feel even the tiniest pang of regret in lying to him, I was more afraid of what would ensue if I was honest. What John didn't know was his latest attempt at romance had already gone sour, but neither she nor I had informed him yet and despite all the obvious signs, he was oblivious as always.

For the better part of their time together she had been seeing another man and I suspected it based on the slight whiffs of cologne that John did not wear on her clothes or the way she would smile at him, yet very subtlety move away when he reached for her hand or stood close to her. Still, I kept my misgivings to myself until I had further proof which I obtained by following her. In retrospect of modern attitudes and laws it might have been considered something more like stalking, but I generally have no use for such contrivances and it didn't take long to discover the truth. The trouble was, she was suspicious of me as well and was waiting for me with her preferred beaux and 10 of his friends, all of whom appeared to be enlisted in the Royal Navy if their uniforms were to be believed- which I didn't. It was a harrowing few minutes of lightning fast thinking and execution of plans, but I was eventually able to escape though not entirely unharmed.

Thankfully, they left no obvious marks on my face or else the game would have been complicated by my having to slink into the morgue at St. Bart's late as it was and somehow convince Molly Hooper to make up my face with her cosmetics under the guise of some experiment. God knows what she may have thought of it, although she likely would have pressed on anyway if only because she fancied me for some bewildering reason and it would have afforded her the opportunity to get up close to me. I wasn't sure that was something I was willing to encourage even if it meant pulling one over on John. Like Lestrade, Molly had her uses and overall her services were more valuable to me than his so I wanted to preserve a certain work/life balance as I've heard is healthy to do. Not dipping the pen in the company ink and all that.

Somehow I managed to get myself home, although walking up the steps was a challenge as the whole structure of the house seemed to spin and I had to navigate this in the dark whilst avoiding all the steps that creaked so as not to awaken John. The last thing I wanted was for him to come and flick the lights on which would no doubt feel like hot daggers to my eyes, demanding to know where I'd been like my mother reprimanding me for being out too late drinking. I collapsed in my bed, face down in the cool sheets and promptly lost consciousness. I didn't have the strength or will to even undress myself beforehand- all I wanted was relief from the splitting headache and overwhelming nausea I felt that were no doubt the result of nearly being brained with a pipe to the back of the head. I only briefly lost consciousness during the attack, but decided to remain on the ground as though I were dead after waking as I calculated this was my best chance of not meeting Molly in the morgue under much more dire circumstances.

I knew it was only a matter of time before John grew suspicious, but it was exceedingly hard to resist the overwhelming urge to sleep as the scrambled neurons in my brain drained all available energy and struggled to repair themselves, but it was harder still to vomit quietly without arousing suspicion. I managed to avoid this by turning on the tap and the exhaust fan in the bathroom. If he wondered why I hadn't eaten or even taken tea it was because I simply found the very idea of ingesting anything revolting. It was also much easier to make less noise retching when it was non-productive. I didn't need him to tell me I was concussed- this didn't fall into the dire emergency category which required his intervention and so I kept the unfortunate event to myself but it didn't mean I could simply laze around all day. I had work to do.

I made brief appearances so he wouldn't think me dead or worse yet, drugged, although I'm sure I appeared that way to him pale and stumbling around as I was. Even though the screen of his laptop seemed uncharacteristically blurry, I made quick work of it and searched Scotland Yard's most wanted list. Not at all surprisingly, I found six of the ten men who had attacked me the night before and set to work activating my vast network of unfortunates who see all but are unseen themselves to track the men down. Each were given instructions to contact Lestrade's office at a specific time to tip him off to the wanted man's whereabouts. It was an easy enough thing to nick John's phone and get his phony lover's number to send a message of my own: each of her companions were going to be arrested in sequence on the hour and unless she too wanted to join them as a conspirator to my attempted murder, she will do right by John by ending things with him by 5:00pm. In truth, were I feeling entirely at myself I would have taken the extra step to find out who she really was or why she made habit of keeping company with men of questionable occupation, but I didn't have it in me to care that much. All I wanted was for her to pick another target- some other unfortunate soul who may have deserved it or at the very least, didn't have a flatmate as astute as I.

In the end I did achieve my goal and the look on his face was heartbreaking when he received the text I knew would come at exactly the time I had dictated. I allowed him a moment to compose himself before casually asking, "Your sister fall off the wagon?" Of course I knew, but I had to be obtuse in a predicable way so as not to make him suspicious.

"I…" he swallowed, again looking at his phone as though he were hoping he'd misread the message, "Tina's done with me. Says she's moving on." His voice waivered just enough to betray the brave face he was putting on. "I don't understand…" and it was clear he didn't.

I put down my violin as the room again started to swirl a bit. "Well then, seems your plus one for tonight is available." I murmured, trying my best to walk toward my bedroom in a casual pace without seeming too eager or falling down. I hoped he took my sudden change in demeanor as tacit acknowledgement of his misfortune rather than the near calamity I was trying so desperately to stave off.

He looked up at me astonished and asked, "Aren't you going then?"

"No," I called over my shoulder, so close to the privacy of my bedroom and sweet relief, "I can't be seen as your date and Lestrade's probably been getting gifts for the occasion all day. Send him my best will you?" If he had anything more to say I didn't hear it as my aching body sank deep into the soft embrace of my bed and the darkness of dreamless sleep pulled me under for yet another rendezvous.


	2. The Departed

**Chapter 2- The Departed**

"So that's it?!" Lestrade asked me agape like an astonished monkey. "You can't be serious." He exclaimed letting his arms drop to his sides in total frustration.

"All of the evidence is there." I responded coolly as I walked at a fast pace back to the road to catch a cab. All in all it was a bit more of a challenge than I let on, but even so it hadn't taken up more than four minutes of my time and I cursed myself for not simply having the cabbie who had dropped me off wait. Then again, the warehouse was disused and in a very shabby district of London so it was surprising he took the fare at all for fear of unwittingly becoming what he probably assumed would be a murder, drugs deal, or prostitution bit and not necessarily in that order. "But as usual you and the least worst London could string together overlook the obvious in search of the stupidly convenient." I glanced at my phone to check the time and did curse under my breath. It was rush hour and the weather had become cold and wet. Getting a cab would prove far more difficult than solving the case I had come for.

"Sherlock," he nearly pleaded, "it doesn't make any bloody sense. You want me to put in an official inquiry report that the man in that building hung himself by standing on a block of ice until it melted?"

"Classic insurance scam." I shrugged, somewhat agitated. I pulled my thick and warm coat around me tighter so as to preserve as much body heat as possible. "He likely took out a policy only recently- otherwise why make it look like an accident?" I asked rhetorically. I didn't expect him to answer, or rather hoped he wouldn't, yet he seemed to take it as an invitation to prolong my suffering. I shut my eyes tight in agony and let out a very deep and bothered sigh when he began to speak.

"I dunno, because he wanted to spare his family?" He asked incredulously, his thick semi-cockney accent sounding jarringly grating as the pitch of his voice rose.

"Oh come on." I rolled my eyes in disgust. "Why bother? It was clear from the yellowness of his skin and the distended abdomen he was dying of liver disease, probably from a life of hard drinking. He knew he was dying and it would have been impossible to hide that from anyone he may have cared about. Most insurance policies have a two year exclusion for cases of suicide, so he had to disguise his death as a homicide in order for his family to collect the benefits. Scatter some packets of heroin and cash about the place and make it look like a drug deal gone bad. A brilliant idea if the detectives that come to investigate aren't willing to look beyond the length of their own noses." I really was starting to become impatient with the cold and Scotland Yard's mind-numbing stupidity. I had no confidence that should I ever turn up dead they could do a respectable job of figuring out why unless it was all caught on a nearby camera with me all the while holding up cue cards explaining each step of the process for them.

"So, he just stood there waiting for what….an hour or more?" Lestrade was still having difficulty wrapping his mind around the mechanics of it all which I found both predictable and slightly amusing.

"Well, given the temperature, humidity, length of rope, and the man's height, the block of ice would have had to be at least 15 centimeters thick for it all to work and at that rate it would have taken something like three days." I quickly calculated.

"What?!" My befuddled companion bleated in abject horror. "He stood there for three days waiting to die?"

"No." I droned, severely disappointed in his lack of reason. "He was dressed too lightly to have stood there for all that time. His family would've had plenty of time to file a missing persons complaint and in any case, he would've frozen to death before then anyway. But we know that didn't happen because corpses don't develop ligature marks." I replied testily. "Good god, man. Do you really think he would have stood there for three days humming 'God Save the Queen' and waiting for his time? I mean, I give him proper credit for his determination, but no one is worth that."

"Alright then, freak. Tell us what happened." Donovan approached the yellow tape barricade that delineated the crime scene from the ordered outside world. She glared at me from under her dark curls, arms folded defiantly across her chest. Her contempt was palpable and in a way I couldn't blame her. If she harbored ill will against me because I had the propensity for critical analysis, I was equally bored by her lack thereof.

I smirked in her direction and smugly began to lay it all bare for them like a magician pulling back the curtain to reveal how he'd managed to saw the lovely assistant in half. "What you failed to note was the position of the body. It was directly over a floor vent which provides heat to the building via a boiler furnace. Your victim placed the ice on the grate and only had to wait 6 to 8 minutes for his fate and the evidence, save for a few minor puddles around the edges on the floor, slipped down the ductwork." I pulled on my gloves with a self-satisfied exaggerated smile and turned to walk to the nearest intersection in search of a way home. I didn't look back to see the expressions on their faces, but I could only assume they were dumbfounded as usual and that was enough for me.

"Wait!" Lestrade called after me. "So what then- we tell his family the poor sot offed himself and they don't get the money?"

"Not my concern." I yelled over my shoulder. "You called me to tell you how he died, not to solve your moral dilemmas for you. Might I suggest you call a priest if you need further guidance?" I curtly quipped, turning up the collar of my coat.

As I walked in the night toward home past darkened alleys, abandoned buildings, and tunnels where people engaged in all manner of abuse to themselves and others in their bid to just survive, I couldn't find it in myself to feel sorry for the man. Whoever he was and whatever his reason for doing so, he made his own choices in life and ultimately his death. His family may feel pain in the months to come, but ultimately he would only become a whisper in their memories and in the end, that was all anyone could ever hope for from the most compassionate among us to the lowliest pariah.

No matter how I thought of it, the sum total was always the same. My parents, Mycroft, Ms. Hudson, John- they would all follow the same script of quiet grief and then insidious amnesia until I was all but forgotten and then what? For all those who came after, my name would mean nothing to them aside from whatever they happened to accidentally read in the papers about a man who seemed to have a gift for solving crimes, except no one really liked him and some even suspected he may have had a hand in them all. Within two generations I might as well not have even existed, but while I had come to accept this eventuality I realized this was not true of most and the very idea was an affront to their fragile sense of self- delusional as it may have been.

But what would I feel? John would be disappointed to know that when it came to death, I was something of the machine he thought me to be. It is the way of nature that a child bury his parents and in truth while my mother held a particular place of affection in my heart if only because she tried but utterly failed to understand her own creation, I likely would not weep at their graveside. It would be much the same for Mycroft, although I would likely harbor at least some smoldering flicker of resentment that he get to gain access to a special knowledge of what truly lay beyond before I. Ms. Hudson, well-meaning as she was, was not my mother despite her efforts to coddle me as though I were her own child and it would be an challenge to find another flat with a landlady who was willing to overlook my questionable behaviors. But then there was John.

How someone so quickly could slip past my usually caustic defenses was a surprise to me. My brutal sarcasm, short temper, and unforgivable refusal to pick up milk were at times a source of annoyance to him, yet he patiently stood in the face of the gale storm of my rapidly shifting moods and racing thoughts until he was able to get his bearings. He was willing to go along with my insane plans yet keen to tell me when I was being patently ridiculous. He stoically abided my inadvertent insults of his intelligence and need for the affection of others while never giving up hope that someday I could function socially without firmly planting my foot in my mouth within the first sentence. But even so, he was always there to smooth things over and save me from myself. People fear or loathe what they don't understand and that was Donovan's take on things- she and so many others call me a freak or worse because they know I'm not like them. He was the only person I'd ever met that never quite understood me, but didn't let that put him off like the curious memes of odd pairings such as gorillas with a pet kitten he's so fond of.

John wasn't with me on this cold and blustery night as he thought it more preferable to spend his hours with some girl he had met somewhere. It amazed me that although deep down he knew it wouldn't work he continued to try to fill some need that even he hadn't identified. Perhaps he was the same to me and the thought gave me pause. While it didn't cause any particular reaction within me to consider the demise of others I knew, there was some part of me that wanted to avoid dwelling on a time when he would no longer be around, so I quietly heeded it and dropped my head down against the howling wind, walking faster toward my place of relative comfort.


	3. The Mayonnaise Mystery

**Chapter 3- The Mayonnaise Mystery**

"I'm bored." I droned helplessly as I slid further down in my chair, my long legs and feet nearly reaching John's seat across the room like a seeping bridge of listlessness. "God, why can't there be a sudden spike in crime or perhaps a nice bombing? Just one mildly interesting case is all I ask, yet all anyone can ever seem to do is die in a perfectly ordinary and mundane fashion." I grumbled. "An entire city of millions completely lacking in imagination or motivation."

John, aside from a nervous glance at my encroaching limbs, never bothered to look away from his paper which I assumed contained nothing of importance. His indifference to my suffering only made my mood more dour. How he managed to reside happily unchallenged and pleasantly amused by accounts of celebrity sightings or a nice game of Soduku that was obviously written for a child was beyond me. The size of any given Kardashian's posterior was of no consequence to me unless she was smuggling blood diamonds in it- which would actually be a fairly ingenious scheme the more I thought on it. It was as though I could literally feel the neurons in my brain withering away one by one from lack of stimulation and it was slowly driving me mad. I put on an entirely fake yet bright smile and cheerily asked, "What do you say we play a nice game of Cluedo?"

From behind the neat lines of black ink on off white paper, my companion blandly replied "I'd say no. Absolutely not. Not even if we were trying to solve my own murder. I'd say just let me lie here and rot quietly away while you go on about your day, thank you very much."

I sunk deeper yet in my chair and made a pouting face he didn't bother to notice. I admit I didn't really want to play anyway because there were only 432 possible solutions to any given round and many of those could be immediately dismissed based on probability alone. Plus, John had a whole host of unconscious tells which made him a terrible liar so the game was that much less fun for me, but that was absolutely nothing compared to playing with Ms. Hudson. She seemed overly pleased with her draws and made dismally obvious comments at the outset such as "Oh, I always did want to be in films" or "My! How hard would one have to swing that to do someone in?" causing me to throw my cards down on the board with a tense smile and retire to my room under the pretense of a sudden migraine. It was that or risk saying something dreadful that would reflect poorly on my mother's attempts to civilize me during childhood. It should be of note, however, that John followed out of his own need for escapism shortly after under the guise of a welfare check so as to be sure I hadn't really suffered something more serious like a stroke and hadn't in fact collapsed face down in a pool of my own hastily expelled dinner. He confided that as bad as it might have sounded, he actually secretly preferred I had rather than been faced with continuing the one and hence only planned game night at 221Baker Street. I assured him I took no offense but reminded him that the whole fiasco was his idea and I, being the more clever of us, was the only one to execute a viable permanent exit strategy which he did not have. To further delay and keep Ms. Hudson waiting and worrying about my health would surely make him a bad host to which he gave me a stern look and a one fingered salute on his way out.

I sighed like a petulant child and flopped in my chair a few times before picking up my phone in search of something to relieve the endless restlessness that burned like fire in my very bones. "What are you doing now?" John asked quizzically peering over his paper. "Are you texting Mycroft?"

I groaned as I scrunched up my face in utter disgust. "No. Why on earth would I text Mycroft? He doesn't like playing Cluedo anymore than you do." On the occasions we did play they were more like lightning rounds and didn't last more than four turns a hand before one of us would solve it. We were both rather bored with it within the time it took to drink a single cup of tea.

John looked entirely put out the way he always did when I obviously missed his point. "For a case, you git. Molly then?" He guessed in a mild mannered tone.

"Yes, Molly." I confirmed. I was just about to tap the send button, but my finger hovered above the glowing screen ever so slightly at the sound of condescending chuckling. "What?" I asked somewhat paranoid. My text messages to her were always of a decidedly non-sensual nature, but if inquiries of recently deceased old men or the availability of medium sized left hands were considered a turn-on then I was truly Cassanova. I found it a bit tiresome and sexist to assume that a man and a woman couldn't converse in a professional context without it being some clandestine raging hormonal affair.

"You might want to be careful," he warned playfully as he turned the page of his paper with a crisp snap, "she may think it's your version of a booty call."

I blinked my eyes slowly and asked in a measured tone, "I beg your pardon?" Unlike him, I didn't automatically view women in a sexualized light nor had I ever had need of buttocks for an experiment. I saw her as a woman who although not necessarily brilliant, was educated in her own right to do well enough in life. More importantly she was useful in getting me access to things that were shall we say, difficult, to otherwise procure. But of highest importance was the fact I could trust her. Her physical appearance simply didn't figure into the equation unless she had taken steps to make it so such as her habit of smearing lipstick on or rearranging her hair if she thought I might notice- which I always did because I notice everything. But what she didn't understand was that I by and large couldn't care less if she wore her hair down, in girlish pigtails, a pink Mohawk, or shaved it off entirely so long as we continued in the arrangement we had agreed upon. Otherwise her stylistic preferences were her business as were mine. I didn't wear my hair as I did because John thought it sexy. Then again perhaps he did as he seemed to make everything else sexual.

"Ok then. You want to solve mysteries? I'm game." He declared nearly crumpling his paper into a miserable heap as his arms fell into his lap. "Let's solve the mystery of Sherlock's hang-ups about relationships because that's one I don't understand."

I gave him an icy sarcastic smile and glanced down at my phone to delete the message I had crafted. "Really? Of all the many, many things you clearly don't understand this is the thing that most captures your attention?" I couldn't help but allow the acid I felt seep its way into my voice, making it sound both cold and fiery at the same time. I raised my eyebrows in mock interest and continued, "Ah, is this the bit where you tell me how abnormal it is to not become embroiled in downward spiral of passion which turns to indifference before dying an all too slow death of hatred as is the path of most so called relationships? If it is, then by all means feel free to go ahead without me because I can assure you I've heard this lecture many times."

He seemed slightly sad as he shook his head yet he smiled which was not at all the reaction I expected. "I'll bet you have, but tell me honestly, Sherlock. Have you ever dated anyone- like…ever?"

He wasn't trying to mock me the way so many others had- that much was apparent in the tentative way he asked the question, but I still didn't understand the purpose of it all, so thought carefully before venturing, "Is this one of those bonding things? You'd feel like more of a friend if you knew more of my history in search of common experiences you could relate to?"

He laughed a little as though he were caught off guard or slightly embarrassed. "Sure," he nodded affirmatively, "I suppose it can be one of those things, yes."

"Very well then." I conceded with an irritated sigh and a defeated tone. Sometimes I wondered if having a rabid wombat as a flatmate wouldn't be less painful. "The answer is yes, but as you'd probably envision it turned out not to be within my sphere of refined interests." I could see him sit up in his chair ever so slightly and I warily asked, "I'm not going to get out of this without disclosing all of the lurid details, am I?"

He tried to put on a serious expression to cover for his excessive curiosity which was wholly inadequate as he firmly stated, "Oh, absolutely not. Not a chance." After a brief pause he cocked his head and furrowed his brow as he asked, "Did…did you say lurid? Are they really?"

I carefully placed my hands together under my chin and smirked mysteriously. "I will tell you it involved a beaker, 9 meters of medium weight black tarp, fire, and mayonnaise. But before we begin, I have a list of demands that require your assurances."

He seemed enraptured by the juicy tidbits, but to his credit at least outwardly attempted to maintain a dignified expression. Nonetheless he was clearly eager to play along and prodded, "Go on."

"I will require a fresh pot of tea, indulgence of one pack of cigarettes which I will choose when and where to smoke without reprimand, relieved of the duty of picking up milk for the next month…"

He shook his head and look confused as he smiled. "You never do that anyway!"

I pretended not to hear him as I laid out my final demands undeterred, "…and your solemn vow on all you hold dear that not one word of this will be found in your blog or will be passed in idle gossip with others." I paused to lower my voice to imply the utmost importance. "Also, I need for you to try your utmost not to laugh each time you look at Mycroft. He's terribly resentful and still fairly sensitive over the whole thing." I gave him a small wink which sent him off like a rocket nearly tripping over himself to boil a kettle posthaste.

He would later be very disappointed to learn that the whole of my tale comprised of a young woman whom Mycroft employed early in his career and had accompanied him home for a brief visit while they were on their way to properly muck up something for someone no doubt. The said woman apparently fancied me like a moth to the flame and I in turn avoided her by isolating myself in my room to clean my beakers. She held no interest for me even though the boys at school would have thought me some sort of hero and lined up to congratulate me for getting on with an older woman. By that time I had decided on studying chemistry at university, but waiting until I got there seemed like an utter waste of time. As it turned out I had wasted my time despite my best intentions. Only after I arrived at university proclaiming I knew most of what the degree required did I discover that was not the way of things and I was expected to attend classes the same as all the other dull students who hadn't been bothered to look into it beforehand. Those were quite possibly the worst years of my existence on this planet as evidenced by several rows with my professors, a stint in jail over a complete misunderstanding, and a few expulsions. But that, I told him, was an entirely different tale which would require its own set of allowances.

As for Mycroft's assistant, in a completely misguided attempt to earn my favor she brought a sandwich to my room for me. Not only did the shameless cradle robber attempt to foist a wholly unwanted sandwich upon me, I was completely put out to discover she had smeared mayonnaise all over it. Simply put, I could not and still cannot abide the taste, smell, or thought of eating it despite it being a stable emulsion and I told her as much. She backed away from me as though I had wounded her and in doing so she tripped over a fold in the tarpaulin which kept spills off the hardwood floors least my mother paint the walls with my blood. She stumbled backward into a Bunsen burner and the hem of her blouse caught fire. Stupidly she stood there in total shock while her clothing burned despite my yelling at her to get to the ground and roll, so I lunged at her, tore off her shirt, and pulled her to the ground to smother any flames that had caught hold of her undergarments or hair.

Naturally, upon hearing my alarmed yelling and all the crashing about, Mycroft and my mother ran to my room only to find me straddling the woman and pinning her to the floor- her shirt in shreds at her side and me with my hands hovering over her breasts and her with a terrified look on her face. We were both surrounded by bits of sandwich all over the floor and more horrifying to me than being discovered in such a situation was the fact that several pieces of bread and lettuce clung to me, glued in place by mayonnaise.

I stoically received the most severe and bewildering lecture from my mother as I ever had in my entire life despite my protestations of innocence while my father and Mycroft looked on in mildly disgusted silence. I was forced to endure the suspicion I might have been a rapist and the entire lot of social shaming and disowning that entails until the silly girl had recovered sufficiently from her shock to properly clear my name a number of hours later.

After the fact, she occasionally inquired about me to Mycroft and according to him apologized profusely. She even went so far as to send me a small jar of mayonnaise in jest, although my father found it and ate it late one night never once appreciating the irony of it all. In the end perhaps she realized a relationship would not be proper for any number of reasons chief among them my complete disinterest as well as my age relative to hers which would have technically classified her as a pedophile even though I had reached the age of consent. It was my understanding then as it is now that if polite society looks down in distain on rapists, they are even more unfavorable to child predators. She left Mycroft's employ shortly after and last I knew she was working in the children's toy section of a midrange shop. John seemed to find that last bit of special interest.

Of course there were others- all with similarly disastrous results but each for wholly different reasons and some of those were still too fresh in my memory or too personal for me to rehash for his amusement and I think he suspected as much. Even though I had in a way tricked him, he wasn't entirely cross with me and good naturedly went to the shops to buy the cigarettes I was owed with the disclaimer that should Ms. Hudson catch me smoking in the flat as was against her policy he would plead complete and total ignorance.

To my dismay, he also bought a disgustingly large jar of mayonnaise and assured me that should I ever become wholly unbearable he would "make a Sherlock sandwich" by spreading the despised condiment in my bed sheets and wrapping me up like a burrito just to watch me go into a fit. I attempted to maintain my composure in the face of the jarred menace, but silently cursed myself for giving him the ammunition with which to torment me for the foreseeable future.


	4. Holiday Miracles

**Chapter 4- Holiday Miracles**

I had spent the better part of the evening staring out the window to the street below in a haze of utter listlessness. The flat was unusually quiet and while on any other given day I would have found this to be paradise, on this night it was the harbinger of inevitability. It was the holiday time and while the spits of snow that fell lightly covering the street, cars, and everything with a blanket of blazing white pureness was in its own way beautiful, I couldn't shake the darkness that stirred deep inside me, beckoning me to its inky depths. I pulled on my coat, made sure to have a fair amount of cash in my pocket, and left my identification card and everything else on the table to head to a place where no one cared who you were and the more anonymous the better.

Ms. Hudson decided to spend the season with a friend in the warmer climes of Florida. Like a good tenant I wished her a pleasant journey, but while the driver loaded her bags into the cab I quietly bent to her ear and whispered I expected not to receive a message from her or the British Embassy requesting my presence for another "mishap." She sheepishly grinned and gave me a playful pat on the arm. "Oh Sherlock," she nearly laughed, "You've solved that one and most of his business partners are dead or in jail. I don't think I'll be getting into trouble unless I have one too many mojitos at the bar. Even so, if you come do mind to bring sunscreen dear. It's very sunny there you know." What I meant to be a parting jest to send her on her way had surprisingly spun into a litany of potential problems that she would no doubt worry about during her absence such as my capability of making my own tea, not setting the place ablaze during an experiment, forgetting to lock the door when I went out, and the welfare of some stray cat that had been coming around for weeks now which I never noticed. I couldn't speak for the cat, but I did my best to assure her I would somehow manage my own affairs and she would return to find the place just as she'd left it.

John too abandoned me, but unlike Ms. Hudson his journey was not going to be a pleasant one and it gave me at least some measure of satisfaction to know I wouldn't be the only one suffering. Holidays have a way of making already peculiar people act in even more bizarre ways as though there is something magical about it and they couldn't be bothered to sort their personal business out at any other time of the year. From what I had gathered, he and his sister were at one time close and despite her alcoholism, he remained loyal to her in some sense so when she invited him to her home for a dinner he was wary, but accepted as the good brother he was. The look of sheer dread was etched onto his face as he headed for the train station, yet he wished me well and had the temerity to pause and ask if I would be alright. He knew that Mycroft and I had a similarly difficult relationship although simple overindulgence would seem trivial- he was much too busy nearly getting me killed or engineering socioeconomic unrest and sometimes both simultaneously which made for very tedious family dinners indeed. In fact the very prospect was so dreadful I had months before avoided the whole affair by telling my mother I had planned to travel to Afghanistan as it was safer territory.

I might as well have because I found myself in a place that was likely more deadly despite myself. It only took a scant 20 minutes and £20 to buy a spot on a grubby mattress in a corner of a disused building and a few ounces of relief from my own mind. I had no second thoughts or hesitations as I shirked my arm out of my coat, rolled up my sleeve, and with the precision that comes with practice slid the needle into my vein. I was careful enough to bring my own kit because one could never be sure of the cleanliness of needles found in drug dens. I could feel the drug slowly wind its way up my arm, into my chest, and seep into my brain in a deliciously warm cloud that continued to spread throughout my body in a slow bloom of mild euphoria as though I were weightless. I sighed deeply and sank back into the disgusting mattress stained with the sweat, blood, and vomit of all the desperate souls who came before I looking for peace. None of this bothered me which was the wonder of it all and I sank into a calm and restful sleep.

What I could never make John or anyone else understand was for all the brilliant gift my mind seemed to be, it was like living with an insatiable demon in my head that drove me mad if not properly distracted. If I had a case, one that truly required a careful eye and penchant for logic to solve, my mind was perfectly content and it was the only time I felt ordinary in any sense. I often poked fun at John, Lestrade, and others for their simple minds but in truth I envied them and the way they could just seem to exist without constant stimulation as though they could simply turn it all off with a switch. Even between cases I tried to practice restraint and just swallow the burning fire that consumed me, but sometimes it became too much and I had to resort to other means to the same end. I was well aware that they and everyone else disapproved of my methods, but for me it was less about getting high and more about just being normal if only for a little while.

I awoke some hours later facing a wall with peeling paint as though the very structure were weeping for what it had become. The broken windows of the building let in an icy chill and I curled up into a tight ball, wondering how it was I hadn't frozen to death in the cold. Outside I could hear the occasional person screaming and the shrill howl of sirens as the police or ambulance sped across the city to save a life or check on one that's ended. Behind me a person heaved a series of ragged, wet coughs indicative of a deep chest infection while others in the room quietly moaned in agony or ecstasy, it was hard to tell. In a full state of consciousness the putrid smell of the mattress assaulted my nose and I reflexively covered it with the collar of my coat yet I continued to lay there, completely dispossessed of any will to move.

Although my mind was alert, my body was still lethargic and I knew it was too soon to attempt another shot least I run the risk of overdose. I wasn't counting on anyone having access to an antidote much less the knowledge or wherewithal to use it to save my life if need be. Hoping that someone would call an ambulance was absolutely out of the question given the goings on. There was a certain code to be followed in such places and chief among them was self-responsibility. Using was your own business and one could risk and lose all they liked so long as it didn't put other addicts in a position they would have to interact with authorities in any manner. If I died it was my fault- full stop.

I could have saved myself all the trouble and just gone back to the flat, but that was problematic for several reasons. My occasional hobby was not exactly a well-kept secret at Scotland Yard and Lestrade had no compunction of making use of that fact to remind me he could make my life very hard indeed if he so chose. Thanks to Lestrade John also knew, although in typical fashion he always wanted to believe I'd gone sober. Perhaps it was just routine for him to conveniently bury his head in the sand given his experience, but while Lestrade and his band of miserable miscreants tore the flat apart in search of what they would never find, I couldn't help but think he was left wondering what he'd done in a past life to deserve yet another junkie in his life to manage.

But in reality, the biggest barrier was Ms. Hudson. During the drugs bust she seemed completely confused and I still can't believe she ever put it all together to see that it was me who was suspected of using. Perhaps she didn't want to. In her mind she likely thought they were looking for drugs that had been planted by someone looking for revenge or maybe even medicines John had accidently brought home from the clinic. This was a woman who had supposedly unknowingly been a bookkeeper for her husband's drug cartel which led me to believe that her confusion was all an act of convenience. Nonetheless, it just wouldn't do to die of overdose in her flat when she disliked the very thought of me smoking in it. That would hardly be leaving it as she had it like I'd promised. Both she and John would be gone for several days and over that time my decomposing body could leave quite a mess that would never be gotten out. At least if I died in this squalid place my body would quickly be removed only to be found in a dumpster or the Thames- an unknown John Doe until perhaps Molly happened to recognize me on the autopsy table should the authorities care enough about what happened to initiate an inquest, but even this possibility was remote because no one cares what comes of junkies.

I remained still for what felt like eternity until perhaps out of a sense of self-loathing I took the chance of a second dose, albeit a smaller one. I just wanted to close my eyes and let the wretchedness surrounding me melt away. I wanted to forget where I was and what I was doing because despite my ambivalence toward myself, I couldn't shake the knowledge that there were people who would be severely disappointed in me if they knew what I was up to. Here I was, alone and nearly frozen lying on a disgusting mat stuffing potentially lethal drugs into my veins on the holidays. It was too pathetic even for me to abide and so I prepared another syringe and popped it off as quickly as I could in the hopes of some serenity. However, in the instant that followed I immediately regretted it.

I knew the familiar feeling of having gone too far and my mind raced against the sluggishness I had ensnared it with because I knew that time was of the essence. I fumbled in my pocket for my phone and stabbed at the buttons like a drunken sot as my muscles began to relax so much they had become practically useless. I typed furiously and hoped the recipient would be able to make out the address in spite of the mistakes I couldn't be bothered to correct. Quickly running out of expendable energy, I positioned myself on my side to ease the breathing which had become distressingly difficult as the sinking numbness that first afflicted my fingers crept its way into my chest. My head ached with a sudden rush of blood and I felt desperately nauseous. Reflexively, my mouth opened agape and I gagged, although I hadn't eaten anything in the hours prior. The precious minutes ticked by and with each one, the likelihood of my demise grew exponentially as the warm and peaceful darkness beckoned to me to cease fighting and simply accept its eternal embrace. Before all went black I vaguely heard a scuffle and a disembodied man's voice calmly call my name and I wondered if it was God or the devil who had come for me.

When I regained consciousness I found myself lying in my own bed which was a relief, although it was short lived when I turned my head to see Mycroft seated in a chair next to me with a very stern look on his face and clutching his umbrella a little too tightly as though he were giving the prospect of beating me senseless with it serious consideration. "There you are." He said lightly, belying the anxious rage that simmered just below the surface. It was as though we were children playing hide and seek. "Did you have a good sleep?"

"Until now, yes." I groaned petulantly. My head still hurt somewhat and I felt sick, but what bothered me more was the stinging pain that still ate at my face and chest from being slapped and having my sternum rubbed in an effort to bring me around. I wasn't sure if he was directly responsible, but he would have no doubt enjoyed it.

His jaw tightened as though he were chewing gravel and his eyes narrowed momentarily, but he composed himself before chiding, "Mommie was worried when you didn't come to dinner."

Suddenly all the sickness and pain receded and was replaced by sheer horror. "You didn't tell her, did you?" I gasped. My mother was utterly clueless about many things when it came to me, but my use was one thing I worked hard to keep from her. I wasn't sure exactly why, it just didn't seem right for her to know.

"Of course not." He frowned deeply and tapped his umbrella on the floor in agitation. "Why now of all the times before would I tell her you nearly did yourself in? You know Christmas is her favorite holiday, specious as it is, and it would break her heart."

I remained sullen at his not-so-subtle jab. "What did you tell her then?"

He gave a well-practiced duplicitous smile. "You really should be more careful, Sherlock. Your habit of patronizing seafood shops of questionable cleanliness is bad for your health. Food poisoning can be quite dangerous."

I nodded in appreciation at his cleverness and sheepishly admitted, "I told her I was traveling to Afghanistan."

"I suppose you did as heroin is an opiate derivative and Afghanistan has some of the most extensive poppy fields known to mankind." He replied darkly. He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice to convey the seriousness of the matter. "It was close this time, Sherlock. Too close."

"I sent you the address." I defended weakly. I didn't need him to tell me how close to death I had come, I felt it and by the end had resigned myself to the fact that this time he wouldn't arrive in time to save me as he always had before.

"For all the good it was." He huffed as he rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair. "Autocorrect is an unnecessary evil brought upon the world by those too lazy or stupid to properly spell. If I had believed you, I would have gone to 'Wanker, Lemon Dome' rather than Hackney, London where I found you. Both would be equally appalling, I'm sure of it."

I couldn't suppress the giggle that threatened to strangle me at the absurdly awkward way he said 'wanker' but I tried my best to press on. "How did you find me then?" Growing suspicious I furrowed my brow and followed up with, "And how did you arrive so quickly?" Our family home was at least an hour from the old abandoned warehouse yet help arrived in no more than 15 minutes after I had sent him the urgent message….

"None of that is your concern." He scolded as he stood to leave. "The point is crisis was averted and hurrah for a Christmas miracle. So if you are feeling well enough to look after yourself in a responsible manner and we can both be assured there will be no further incidents in the near future…." He paused to cock his head until I realized he was looking for an assurance which I begrudgingly gave with a resigned nod, "Splendid. I've taken the liberty of notifying Mr. Watson of your foodborne illness and he implied he would be on the first train back to London which should be arriving within the hour." He paused to beam brightly and cheerily stated, "Seems his holiday has been just as miserable as yours. You should get on well together, then."

Even though it felt like acid in my mouth, I knew the moment and his action was deserving of recognition on my part. I looked downward as I quietly mumbled, "Merry Christmas, Mycoft."

He gave a small smile which signaled he understood the deeper context. "And to you, brother."


	5. The Game is On

**Chapter 5- The Game is On**

Having a flatmate such as John had certain advantages. For instance, he knew just where to find the best deals for traveling at the last possible moment's notice, he was terrific at spending an inordinate amount of time completing stupidly simple crosswords in the morning paper, and as it turned out he was a crack shot through two panes of glass from across an alley which turned out to be quite unexpected. What was more unexpected was the string of drunken acquaintances which wound its way up the staircase to our flat at an obscene hour of the morning, led by none other than my unassuming yet wholly pissed said flatmate. While John annoyingly had few personal faults I could point to in comparison to my legion, his inability to say no even when it violated his typically stuffy sense of common courtesy might have been one of them. This is how I ended up with a room full of revelers in an after-hours celebration of his birthday.

To be fair, the flat was half his and he had a right to the spaces as much as I, even if I would never concede that aloud and made my best attempt to clutter every free space with my equipment, books, papers, and the occasional eyeball in a cup. I knew it was his birthday and of plans made by Molly and Lestrade to have an informal get-together for the occasion at the local pub where police and medical types gathered to discuss whatever they could possibly have in common aside from it being conveniently midway between the precinct and St. Bart's. As was mutually expected no one invited me and I wouldn't have gone if they did, so no one was disappointed in that regard. In my experience ordinary people were naturally daft enough, but alcohol acted as an accelerant which made them only too fearless to prove it. Given this fact with my tendency to boredom which often led me to show that I could easily outdo them even in their own professions meant a physical row would surely ensue. As a personal policy, I attempted to avoid situations in which I might find myself ultimately in jail or hospital- especially when I was outnumbered and the balance of those present wished me harm just on principle alone.

I tossed and turned in my bed trying to ignore the bawdy laughter that rose and fell like the swells of a storm at sea. The nagging prospect that someone would no doubt eventually touch my belongings chewed at the ragged edges of my consciousness until I could ignore it no longer. I got up, threw open my bedroom door, and ferociously yelled "Shut up!"

Lestrade's head fell back over the top of John's chair to have an upside down look at me and what he must have seen was apparently amusing. His pink face glowed as he grinned stupidly at me. "Sherlock!" He bellowed in a slurred accent which twisted my name into a positively monstrous contortion. "You missed a time down at the pub, but you're just in time to join in!"

"With what?!" I asked wrinkling my nose in utter disgust at his state and the prospect of joining him or anyone in anything. The concept of going in was generally not to my taste.

"We're setting up to play a game." Molly explained in a muted voice that was somehow even mousier than her usual banter. She looked like she didn't feel well and her tone suggested she was focusing very hard on trying not to be sick all over my floor, for which I was grateful.

I heard the toilet flush and John brushed past which I found slightly rude. He didn't even wash his hands. "C'mon, Sherlock!" He called as he pulled up a seat from the desk and plopped down heavily in it, nearly falling out onto the floor. Heroically he flailed about like a jellyfish until he steadied himself and added with no small amount of irony "The game is on!"

"If the goal is to be even remotely sober, then I declare victory." I snapped testily. I couldn't ascertain if he was attempting to make a very bad pun or outright mock me, but I decided he was dreadful at it in any case.

Lestrade found my comment exceedingly hilarious. "Aw, now. What's the fun in that?" He taunted, tossing his arms up the ceiling before letting them fall heavily to his sides. On the descent his hand struck the small table to his right quite hard, but he didn't appear to even feel it which was a testament to how much the man probably had to drink. "I propose we play a nice round of truth or dare. Sherlock goes first!"

"Why should I?" I asked perturbed. I thought I had established the fact I did not intend to indulge their idiocy and yet they persisted which I found irritating. Memory and logic were typically the first cognitive processes that went missing when drinking preceded only by inhibition and I had no desire to gain knowledge of or observe what would no doubt be regretted by morning.

Molly glanced up at me with moony eyes as a strand of her hair fell across them. She gave a smile that was almost sad as though she pitied me and sighed "Because the host always goes first. It's the rules. Have you never played before?" After she gave it a moment's thought she giggled. "Right. Probably not."

I lifted my chin in an effort to appear more confident if not nonchalant than I really was. "Fine. Molly, truth or dare?"

"Didn't see that coming." John sarcastically smiled as he rolled his eyes.

She seemed surprised even if John wasn't. "Oh! Umm…" she thought carefully no doubt weighing the consequences of potentially being forced to divulge an embarrassing truth and fear of what type of dare I might dream up for her to carry out.

"Careful there, love." Lestrade cautioned her playfully.

"Truth?" She squeaked uncertainly with a sharp squint.

"You've already told me what I wanted to know." I informed her in a disappointed tone. "You thought it safer to choose an action in which you could possibly lie and minimize your embarrassment than trust me not to completely humiliate you by demanding you complete some distasteful act." I lowered my voice almost to a whisper for affect and sadly noted, "Now I see what you truly think of my character."

She appeared ready to cry as she hastily turned to me with her mournful eyes, "No! Sherlock…that's….that's…." she struggled to find the words in her addled little brain but came up short which seemed to upset her more.

"Not fair." John flatly challenged on her behalf. "As usual, you can't play by the rules because you have to show everyone how clever you are. Well done then. You win, off to bed you go." He dismissed me with a wave of his hand as though he were swatting away a pesky fly.

I was a bit surprised by his reaction because it wasn't my intent to make Molly distraught or even show off my intellect. I merely thought it would be a funny joke amongst friends, but something in my tone must not have telegraphed my subversive attempt at humor. Lestrade, for all his inebriation, was still on his game. "Oh," he declared with mild surprise, "I don't think he was expecting you to call him out like that, Dr. Watson. He looks to be a little shook up."

"He'll be alright." John assured the now less jubilant crowd, "He observes everything, but his memory is conveniently spotty for social things. Chances are good he won't even remember it tomorrow and he'll carry on like he always has."

I wanted to defend myself, but I had no means to do so. He was right and there was no way I could refute his charges- at least on the behavior front. He was wrong about my memory, however. I always remembered things such as this which is why I generally avoided 'social things' as he put it.

Molly pursed her lips as though she were debating what to do. Finally, she gave a small conciliatory smile and stated, "Let's give him another go at it. He probably isn't familiar with the game," she turned to me and her soft eyes suddenly hardened a bit to convey the fact she really was trying her best to redeem me, "are you Sherlock?"

"I'm afraid not." I granted, secretly thanking her for her better nature. She had every right to be angry with me and yet she found it within herself to hold the wolves at bay for my own sake.

John looked utterly miserable as though he'd swallowed a lemon. "I'm sorry," he stated somberly with a decisive nod, "I guess now you know what I think of your character."

"It's quite alright." I assured him with a small smile, "I know I'm often the smartest person in the room, but that also makes me the least tolerable to be around."

"Ok then!" Molly proclaimed in a cheerful tone, happy to have resolved the issue for the time being, "Sherlock, truth or dare?"

I squinted at her in confusion. "Are we still playing this silly little game? It was just my turn, someone else can go."

Lestrade's head lolled in my direction and he was all too happy to recite the rules for my benefit. "You did and you chose her. Now it's her turn and she chose you, so either answer a bloody question or do what she tells you."

"This is the most dreadful game I've ever played." I grumbled miserably, "What's the point of it?"

"Truth or dare?" She asked again impatiently.

"Truth." I spat in irritation. "Or at least whatever version I'm prepared to tell you." I added, muttering under my breath.

She giggled like a school girl as she asked, "Have you ever kissed a girl or boy?" I opened my mouth to respond, but she quickly qualified, "On the lips. Not like kissing your aunties or cousins."

I rolled my eyes and sighed deeply. "Really, I'd have thought if you were going to go with that line of questioning you'd have started a little higher up on the chain of affection."

"Well?" John asked expectantly.

"Yes, but who hasn't?" I howled in frustration. This game struck me as something very young children would enjoy, which made complete sense given their collective drunken intelligence.

"Alright then, your turn again." Lestrade almost yawned.

"Yes, I think I have the pattern down now." I quipped. "John."

He blinked up at me with squinty eyes as through I'd roused him from a nap. "Dare." He replied decisively. "There's no way I'm going to allow you to ask me any questions. God knows what you'd come up with."

"Is that a challenge? Then I have one for you. Since you so proudly served Queen and country in the military you should be in tip-top shape. I'd like for you to complete 40 push-ups in the next 60 seconds. GO!" I commanded, borrowing Lestrade's cellphone to keep time.

"Oh, mate!" He laughed hysterically as he watched John half slither and half fall to the floor from his chair only to struggle to push himself away from the hard surface on shaky arms a full three times prior to collapsing onto his face. He attempted only twice more before deciding to remain on the floor, mumbling what were no doubt curses incoherently into the carpet.

"It looks as though I've incapacitated my opponent. I think that means I win." I declared smugly. "Who's next?" I asked in a chipper tone, surveying the room for my next victim. I was starting to enjoy the game after all.

Molly blushed slightly and stammered, "It's getting late I'm afraid. Probably should go now."

"Not me." Lestrade shook his head. "Working with you's a dare enough."

"Oh, you get your truth through. Even when you don't want to believe it or see it for yourself." I replied flippantly.

He stood slowly and glanced at John who had decided to take up permanent residency in the floor before joining Molly at the door. "Tell Dr. Watson we wish him a happy birthday, will you?"

I also turned to look at him and asked dryly, "Is that what happiness looks like?"

"Seems peaceful to me." He answered uneasily. No doubt John looked like so many other murder victims he'd seen over the years lying face down as he was and perhaps this was what bothered him. I wondered if he'd ever been called to the death of someone he knew personally and I would have asked him, but the game was over.

After seeing them out and into a cab, I returned to the flat and contemplated leaving John in the floor where he lie as he seemed entirely content as he was. However, something nagged at me and unpleasant as it was, I roused, cajoled, and half carried him to his room where I found myself removing his shoes, pants, and button down shirt before tucking him into the covers like a child. Drunk as he was, I placed a bucket by his bed in the event he needed to vomit hastily as well as a glass of water to either rinse his mouth or drink because he would no doubt be dehydrated and have an incredible hangover.

He thankfully put up a minimal fuss throughout the ordeal and I sincerely hoped he would recall nothing of the encounter. There were only a few hours left until dawn and tired as I was, I could do no more than close my eyes as my mind was preoccupied with every sound that emanated from his room through my door which I had left cracked just in case he needed my assistance. In those hours I was reminded of how he must have felt when it was I who through miscalculation or stubbornness needed his attention. On the balance, it was a feeling of worried anger that I did not enjoy and although he thought I had no memory capacity for such things, I resolved to forever recall those moments.


End file.
